Live & Let Die, Chapter 1
by ukie
Summary: a curse for eternity... a thousand deaths, a thousand rebirths... what happens when the curse is disrupted?


PROLOGUE  
  
  
I  
  
The house looked eerie.  
  
At least, that was how she saw it. She paced in little circles   
out on the driveway pondering whether to step onto the porch   
and ring the bell or not. The small, straw-woven basket   
swayed under her arm as she walked timidly, chewing her   
lower lip in worry and furrowing those lean eyebrows ever so   
slightly into her beautiful, pale face.   
  
She did not know how long she had been standing there.  
  
With an indecisive look her eyes wandered and traveled along   
the curvy green vines that had crawled up the crumbling paint   
and formed giant, greenish cobwebs onto those dusty gray   
walls that once were white. She turned to see the other side of   
the old mansion and tried hard to tear her gaze away from the   
deformed tree - the singular, overly-large branch that plastered   
itself against the windows on the second floor, and that   
slanted, rotting stem that seemed about to fall and crash into   
the house any minute. Even in the midst of a mid-August day   
when the sun took its sweet time scorching the ground down   
here in the South and turning everything into a melting wax   
effigy of a summer, the house in front of her still emitted a   
strange feel of cold, damp darkness that she could almost...   
taste.   
  
Yup, she said to herself, this is definitely creepy.   
  
But then again, she had no choice. Every single time they did   
a sale, she always ended up having the most cookies left in the   
end. Although nobody ever said anything about her poor   
record, she felt bad nevertheless and therefore was determined   
to finish selling her basketful this time around at any cost.   
That was actually why she was here now, five miles away   
from her own not-too-philanthropic neighborhood and in the   
middle of nowhere, trying her damned best at selling these   
girl-scout cookies.   
  
Gathering what courage she had, she held her light, angular   
chin high, straightening the wrinkles on her sleeves and her   
knee-length skirt and dusting off her hair, she marched up to   
the porch like a woman on a mission and firmly pressed the   
doorbell.   
  
Hopefully someone answers soon, she thought as she lifted her   
free hand to her forehead, wiping off a few beads of sweat. I   
don't want to miss Sailor Moon this week.  
  
  
II  
  
To sum up the painfully long into the mercifully short, Vinny   
Vampherlive was having a bad day.   
  
Actually, he had been having a bad day everyday since he   
retired from the CIA three years ago. Immediately after his   
retirement, his wife ran away with some other guy and didn't   
even bother filing a divorce. Said something to the effect that   
it was a payback for all those years in the service when he's   
neglected her because of his work.   
  
In truth, Vinny loved his wife very much. Like many other   
dumped men, he often drank himself to a half-comatose state,   
seeking to relieve the pain in his heart. It was not until a year   
ago that he had found a rekindled love – the NRA.  
  
The National Rifle Association had literally pulled him out of   
his two-year shock, and restored in him the ability to function   
like a human being once more. Vinny had always been   
obsessed with firearms, although he wouldn't admit it and   
even consciously suppressed himself from using a gun unless   
he absolutely had to, as it would make his professional career   
look very unprofessional otherwise. However, with the NRA   
he finally found an outlet to release himself and openly stock   
and treasure his guns as much as he wished. In fact, he   
polished each piece on his rack daily ever since, caressing the   
cold, steel barrels like a woman's skin and loving the surge of   
raw power that he felt whenever he held a gun in his hands.   
For a while, life for Vinny was passably good.  
  
Things turned ugly when the congress, due to a rapid rise in   
assault-related crimes all over the country, passed a resolution   
that severely limited the NRA and its members from holding   
an excessive amount of small-weaponry in their houses. The   
slogan they used was very simple, "You have a right to bear   
arms," the spokesman of the House intoned in a news   
conference, "just not more than what your hands can carry."  
  
In short, this translated to Vinny having to sell off every one   
of his beloved collections except for the two trusty shotguns   
that he treasured above all. And no, he was not happy about   
it. Deprived of his love for the second time in his life, Vinny   
resumed his drinking and left everything else, including his   
house, in shambles. He himself had long realized what a mess   
he's become and, prophesizing an early death for himself, he   
even bought some course materials and made a coffin that he   
stored down in the basement, very sure that it would come in   
handy sometime in the near future.  
  
Then, the unthinkable thing happened today.   
  
His long companion for eleven long years. His trusted friend   
who stayed with him and endured all hardships when others   
abandoned him. His pet bat, Reeny Rude, died earlier this   
morning of old age.   
  
Vinny sat long in his chair after he buried RR in his backyard.   
He wasn't angry. He wasn't sad or depressed. He just... was.   
Reeny Rude had been the only tie left between him and this   
world that had seemingly deserted him, and with this last bond   
severed, Vinny Vampherlive felt nothing anymore. It was as   
if there was a gaping hole somewhere inside his body, and he   
was too tired to try patching it up any longer. It took every   
ounce of his energy to restrain himself from picking up one of   
the two shotguns he's left with and blow his own brains out   
right here and now. The only reason he didn't shoot himself   
yet was because he wanted to kill that damned boy who drove   
the dumpster truck first for being so damned late every single   
week, including today. So he sat in his chair, seething unholy   
rage at everything in general and especially at that dumpster-  
truck boy whose absence was detaining Vinny from going to   
his own maker, silently waiting to bestow this small farewell   
gift unto a world that had been cruel to him all his life.  
  
And then, of all the days in the world and for the first time in   
more years than Vinny could remember, his doorbell rang.  
  
  
III  
  
"Would you like to buy some girl-scout cookies?" She was   
about to say in the sweetest girl-scout-cookie-selling tone   
possible as the door swung open, but stopped short at the word   
"buy" and gasped when she found herself talking to the   
receiving end of a large, twin-barrel shotgun.   
  
"Yea? What do you want?" The dark-haired man behind the   
half-opened door asked, his bloodshot eyes examining the   
uniform figure before him.   
  
Her pretty green eyes widened in fear. Vaguely she seemed to   
recall to have read in the newspaper a few weeks ago with   
some headline that ran like "Girl Scout Shot By Raving   
Maniac While Selling Cookies." Even if she hadn't read it   
somewhere before, she was positive that it would appear very   
soon. "Uh, uh," she stammered in shock, staring at the gun.   
"N, Nothing, sir, I'll just be going now. Very sorry to bother   
you, yes, really, I'm terribly sorry. I promise you I won't ever   
show up again, please, sir, have a very pleasant day," she said   
while edging a few steps backwards quickly and almost   
tripped herself on the stairs as she did so.  
  
"Wait! I'm not done with you yet! Why did you come here?"   
The red pupils that stared at her maliciously glimmered in a   
predatory fashion as he spat the words out. Oh no, I'm gonna   
die, she thought, I'm gonna get blown into a thousand little   
bits and my dress is gonna be all bloody and messy.   
  
"Please don't shoot me! Please!" She pleaded. "I'll give you   
everything I have but please just let me go! Look, I can give   
you-" she frantically began searching through her pockets and   
came up with... nothing here. "some, um-" Nothing here   
either, save a few dollars of change. "—girl-scout cookies?"   
She offered hopefully. "I'm sorry but I only have two dollars   
with me and I need them to take the bus back home... but you   
can have all the cookies. They are very tasty, I'm sure you'll   
like them if you just give it a try."   
  
"Wait, let me get this straight," the man seemed to lower his   
guard for only a few seconds as confusion seeped into his   
voice. "You're a girl-scout, and you're here to sell me some   
cookies?" She nodded.  
  
"You mean, you're here to sell cookies?" He repeated. She   
nodded again.  
  
"And you think that I would be interested in them? You think   
that someone whose wife ran away, who was forced to sell out   
his guns, someone whose bat just died this morning, Someone   
Like Me, WOULD BE INTERESTED IN BUYING YOUR   
GOD-DAMNED COOKIES?" The man took a step toward   
her, cocking his shotgun in one swift motion.   
  
She trembled.  
  
"Get the hell outta my house now and take your damned   
cookies with you and don't COME BACK OR ELSE I'LL   
SHOVE THIS GUN AND YOUR COOKIES UP YOUR   
**********!" He hollered in uncontrollable rage.   
Thankfully, she covered her ears with her palms in fear before   
she could make out what the raging madman was actually   
yelling about.   
  
The poor girl fled in tears, making a beeline straight across the   
lawn toward the street.   
  
"AND STAY OFF THE LAWN!"  
  
She hopped over to the pavement instantly and continued   
scrambling down the driveway, spilling cookies everywhere.  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes Vinny saw the familiar green,   
juggernaut shape that was the dumpster truck speedily hauling   
itself up the slope from the other end of the street some fifty   
yards to the right. For a slight moment Vinny hesitated and   
wondered why the garbage truck was driving in reverse this   
time, but then he pushed the thought away and slowly took   
aim at the truck. A tiny voice nagged at his subconscious and   
warned him something about that girl who was currently   
making a blind dash down the street while constantly turning   
her head back to check on him, and about the truck that was   
quickly backing up from the other end of the road.   
  
All of a sudden, an unreadable expression flickered across   
Vinny's face as the realization of some impending calamity   
dawned upon him and temporarily made him forget even his   
desire to kill.  
  
"HEY!" Vinny yelled at the top of his lungs at the retreating   
figure, "WATCH OUT!"  
  
  
IV  
  
It wasn't that Seth was lazy or tardy in nature. Quite the   
opposite, in fact, would have held true for him: Seth was just   
about the most dedicated man ever lived. He would do   
absolutely anything to get a job done. And he never   
complained.  
  
Which would be one of the many reasons why he was now in   
all his glory - complete with the cape and gloves and all the   
get-up, flickering aside a stray long strand of silvery-white   
hair as his eyes narrowed in anticipation like a soldier about to   
charge into the fray.  
  
Then the green light flashed.  
  
Seth promptly stepped on the gas pedal and, feeling the   
familiar trembles and the infernal growl of an overtaxed   
engine, proceeded to steer the green monstrosity that he   
currently sat in down the next block.  
  
Many would wonder how on earth the great Seth Phiro had   
fallen to such state as to humble himself by doing menial   
labors like collecting trash for a remote town in the middle of   
God-knows-where, but the truth was very simple: Seth had   
chosen it himself.  
  
Make no mistake in thinking that he hadn't been successful at   
any of his other careers. He had been the best bodyguard one   
could ever wish for, the most-famed actor in Hollywood, a   
most amazing pitcher, and simply the greatest fireman ever   
lived. He had saved countless lives while working as a   
fireman, and his miraculous efficiency had been much   
publicized by the media, who attributed it as a result for   
having a "seemingly-fireproof hair and most definitely a   
fireproof cape."   
  
In fact, he was at the top of his field in every single one of his   
past fifty-some different careers. Business bloomed with   
every store he worked for; lawsuits were won in his favor   
whenever he argued for a case... there was no doubt that he   
would have been voted as the next President should he cared   
to run a campaign. It would not be far off the truth if one   
claims that the whole nation was on a Seth Phiro high.   
  
Then why in the world did Seth keep switching jobs? Perhaps   
one might ask. The answer was obvious; it's called "every pro   
has its con." And the con factor that came with his   
unparalleled beauty, grace, and fire-immunity was this:  
  
Girls. Lots of them. All packed with starry eyes and usually a   
slight drool off one corner of their mouths. They swarmed   
about him wherever he went.   
  
At first, Seth didn't mind. It was an attention that he didn't   
actively seek for, although it never personally disturbed him   
either. However, when they kept breaching security to find   
him and knelt in front of him professing their love whenever   
they did find him, creating mass human-roadblocks as a result,   
Seth was forced to quit being a bodyguard and went into   
acting. And he quit that too, when he was simultaneously   
awarded the Oscars for Best Actor, Best Supporting Actor,   
and Best Director three years in a row when he only did a   
cameo as a passer-by in a low-budget documentary film. As   
for the fireman bit, it was indisputable that he had single-  
handedly saved more lives than any ten squadrons combined,   
but the national index for counts of arson had also risen 500%   
during the two years when he served on the task force. You   
had no idea how many housewives set their own houses on   
fire while their husbands were away... well, let's put it this   
way. It caused quite a stir when the First Lady, along with   
every female staff member in the building, burned down the   
White House and sent a note demanding that either Seth Phiro   
and Seth Phiro alone flew to Washington this minute and   
rescue them out, or they would all die waiting for him. And so   
on, and so forth, Seth drifted from one job to another,   
relentlessly hounded by packs of ravenous, lovesick females   
everywhere. Perhaps the only time when he had personally   
been part of the reason for an early retirement was that single   
season when he played for the Cardinals: The league could   
take his little fixation on coloring his baseballs green, but they   
staunchly refused when he insisted on using a twelve-foot-  
long bat.   
  
And that was basically why he was stuck now as perhaps the   
most beautiful street-janitor in the history of mankind. Need   
to find a new job again, Seth noted to himself passively as he   
drove up toward Cemetery Drive. Two teenage girls had   
already discovered him here about half-an-hour ago and had   
tried to jump into the pile of garbage on the back and then   
work their way to the front to get to him. He had narrowly   
escaped from having his garbage truck hijacked both times by   
flooring the gas pedal before they could put their hands on the   
truck, but if he had learned anything from the past, he knew   
that those girls would not give up so easily. More likely than   
not, they would have been right on his tail this whole time.   
  
Just to prove his theory was correct, Seth turned his head and   
looked back from the window. Surely, he could vaguely   
discern two tiny figures slowly gaining on him from the rear.   
Time was running short, Seth realized. He needed to think of   
a way to track those two and make sure they wouldn't jump   
onto the truck while he was distracted... and suddenly, he had   
an idea. The last house in the service area was that old   
mansion up at the end of Cemetery Drive, and as far as he   
knew, nobody dared to go near the place because they thought   
it was haunted... Immediately, Seth shifted the gears and did a   
U-turn, then began driving the truck in reverse up Cemetery   
Drive, figuring that it would be safe to do so and he could   
monitor those two girls at the same time so that they wouldn't   
be able to sneak up into the truck.   
  
Seth had so counted on the fact that there wouldn't be   
anybody running on the street near where he was going that he   
didn't hit the brakes until he heard the feminine scream   
coming from the back as he felt the rear bumper hit something   
solid and soft, and realized that he shouldn't have done an   
emergency break while driving in reverse because it would   
cause all the garbage bags to topple back out of the truck.   
  
xxx  
  
She screamed when she suddenly felt a mind-jarring impact on   
her body that sent her airborne. She felt her body hit the   
ground and almost passed out from the pain. Dimly she   
thought she heard a harsh, grating sound like someone   
applying an emergency break, but she couldn't be certain   
since everything around her became a haze. She struggled to   
see what was happening around her, but the only thing she   
could make out were strange, huge black bags descending   
down from the sky in waves toward her. It must be a dream,   
she thought, must be some weird dream like the ones she had a   
few weeks ago. She felt sleepy and slowly closed her eyes.   
The last thing she could sense was blackness... and a really,   
really bad stench.  
  
Fourteen year-old Arisa Greensford had no idea what hit her.  
  
  
  
  
[Standard Disclaimers]  
  
  
  
  
  
  
ukulele studios  
proudly presents  
  
  
  
  
Live and Let Die  
(working title)  
  
-a semi-original fan-fiction  
based on Final Fantasy VII  
  
  
  
  
Chapter One: The Dangers of Being A Bubbly Salesgirl  
  
  
I  
  
The mud-sodden road that girded the so-called market looked   
slightly less worn today. Perhaps it had to do with the light   
shower that sprinkled the locale with hesitant, almost bashful   
raindrops again late last night - but then again, perhaps not.   
After all, Market Boulevard had been the only name-worthy   
street in town back when Midgaria was still just called   
Midgar, and even then it had never come close in scale to a   
real boulevard in any sense of the word, no matter how one   
might look at it. It was only fitting that the street, now mostly   
slushy dirt and muck and hardly a speckle of gravel or tar,   
would look the way it did after a night of that ever-so-  
annoying, ever-so-persistent drizzling.   
  
Of course, the buildings that leaned against the sides of the   
road - or at least what was left of those buildings - had fared   
no better either. The pedestrians who were busily scurrying by   
through either side of the grime-filled tracks, however, would   
never bother to stop in mid-stride to ponder just exactly what   
had happened to the once seedy, obscenely prosperous smut-  
heaven of Wall Market, as doing so was an act of futility.   
There hadn't been a public maintenance department... no,   
there hadn't even been a city-planning department in Midgaria   
for the last twenty years, and frankly no one was quite worked   
up enough to complain for a change from the status quo.   
  
That was essentially why the plaza looked the way it did now.   
  
Half-collapsed structures groaned around the town in echo   
through yawning holes that had once been shut off by glass   
windows as faded paint slowly peeled themselves off the   
crumbling high walls to the ground below like a mass,   
organized ritual suicide that had persisted daily over the last   
two decades. Rag-sewn canvas dangled, not unlike entrails   
from a disemboweled enemy, over the stands and vendor carts   
beneath some broken neon tubes that used to form legible   
signs. Greased fumes smothered the surroundings from oil   
lanterns hung onto streetlights that had never shed light -   
according to the memories of the younger inhabitants here,   
who have been mimicking against their will the image of   
hungry rodents trapped inside a gigantic trash-bin for as long   
as they could remember. In a sense, it was almost as if the   
entire pathetic, helpless experience at surveying these   
miserable establishments could be summed up and flawlessly   
represented by a torn sign suspended high between two   
ancient, weather-beaten wooden beams at the town's entrance,   
quietly announcing:  
  
Welcome To  
W A L M A R T  
  
A brown-haired young boy was standing under that sign,   
silently watching the beams totter back and forth rhythmically   
at a sudden gust of wind. Involuntarily, he drew up the hood   
from his small, smudgy overcoat with one hand as he clenched   
reflexively at the hand holding him with the other. "Mom?"   
Dull hazel eyes darted once to the right from under the hood   
as he afforded his mother a timid, questioning glance. "I'm   
cold," he pleaded.   
  
"Yes, dear, I know." His mother sighed, still gazing at the   
road. In comparison, her simple dress was much more   
threadbare than what she donned for the child. "I just have to   
drop these batteries at the junk shop and then we'll get back   
home. Just stay put for a little longer and if I can haggle a few   
more gils from that stingy old man at the store I'll even get   
you something, how about that?"  
  
"I guess so... hey, mom! Can I get one of those?" The sudden   
enthusiastic lilt in the boy's tone stunned her slightly and   
caused her to fix her attention onto where he had pointed. The   
very notion that something existed here could ever raise any   
noticeable sign of enthusiasm from anyone was simply alien   
and absurd to her.  
  
"But... honey, those things... they don't work." The woman   
explained patiently after she realized what her son had been   
talking about. A tall, young brunette wearing a tidy red and   
pink uniform dress loitered by the old clothing store at a   
deliberate pace, apparently trying to sell some of those Shinra   
fortune-telling cards in a hand-woven basket which she carried   
in one arm. It was all just a decrepit, inane idea thought up by   
the Shinra revival movement as far as she was concerned, she   
thought; no cheap, lame, glow-in-the-dark message card was   
ever going to cheer up them survivors in the slums after the   
Meteor. "But mom!" the little boy beside her protested,   
tugging at her sleeves and wriggling his tiny body where he   
stood, much like a gigantic little worm in untold agony. It   
seemed to be the favorite physical expression of objection   
among children, and an ingenious one at that because the very   
act itself was such a pain to watch that their accompanying   
adults would usually comply with their demands immediately   
in hope to only make them stop twitching like that.  
  
"I'm sorry, honey, but that's out of the question. You don't   
buy what you can't eat," she told him flat out. She had built   
enough immunity against the notorious Twitch of Compliance   
that she was able to resist giving in on the first try.  
  
"Please...? I'll be real good from now, I promise..." The   
puppy eyes he gave her were enough to melt iron.   
  
Realizing perfectly well that the boy wouldn't take 'no' as an   
answer and would probably bug her for days on end about this   
afterwards, she sighed and bit into her lower lip. This was   
going to cost her weeks of work. "All right, hon', but only   
this once and after we get back from the junk store."  
  
"Thanks mom you're the greatest." The young boy bubbled as   
he pulled her arm down to him and quickly kissed her cold   
cheeks. "Let's go!" He immediately bounced up and down in   
joy and dragged her towards the direction of the fortune card   
vendor, suddenly entirely unaffected by the chill in the wind.   
  
"I said, AFTER we get back from the store!" She drew her   
arm back along with the boy reluctantly attached to it, and   
headed toward the other direction in exasperation.   
  
  
II  
  
Again.  
  
Sixteen year-old Ariel Garland stared down at herself in slight   
dismay. She did her best to clean off her soiled dress with her   
hands, but all it accomplished in the end was to smear mud   
over the areas of her blouse that were originally untouched.   
Watching the puddle of muck by the street, then at the   
departing Chocobo wagon, and then the darkening sky, she   
concluded that there was nothing to be liked about this   
weather whatsoever. Not one bit.  
  
She refrained herself from muttering a string of not-nice-  
words with a little effort; her shirt was damp with raindrops   
and clung to her skin in a nasty, gooey way and what's worse   
was that no one was buying her cards so naturally it wouldn't   
hurt to take a look –  
  
Oh no. She'd done it again.  
  
Ariel caught herself glancing downward to her left guiltily   
again for the third time, and immediately tore her gaze away.  
  
C'mon, a petulant voice nagged in her mind, you know you   
wanted to take a look. What's the problem?  
  
But... it's silly, she chided herself, hoping to gently squash the   
thought that had been bothering her for the past few hours   
before it got out of hand. Ever since the little incident this   
morning, she had been troubled by this pestering voice   
somewhere inside her head about sneaking a look at one of   
those fortune cards. While immersing in self-debate was as   
good a way to pass idle time as anything else, she was   
beginning to tire and her firm resolution was gradually worn   
down over time.  
  
Aren't you in the least bit curious? The other part of her   
insisted. Don't you want to know?  
  
She couldn't help but to take another peek at the basket resting   
on her left arm.   
  
It really was silly, she told herself again. In fact, it was   
completely ludicrous, especially given the fact that she knew   
those things were fake, and she knew that for a fact because   
she was currently selling them.   
  
From what she was told, the idea for these Shinra fortune-  
telling cards was originally conceived by one of the higher-up   
executives after the old Midgar, along with the pizza platter it   
was served upon, was sucked into the vortex of destructive   
magic when the planet confronted the Meteor. After the entire   
Shinra building and the Sister Ray cannon had been torn in the   
cyclone in a hideously-splattered-like-a-bug-in-a-blender sort   
of way and flung across the Midgar sky in countless tiny   
sheets of metal confetti, the surviving Shinra board member   
had decided that total reconstruction was in order. The   
decision, according to the campaign flyers dropped from the   
air by the Highwind, was not so much a reinstatement of a   
syndicate government, but rather a deed of necessity to   
prevent the world from lapsing further into chaos and anarchy.   
  
In short, what it boiled down to was that someone with former   
connections to Shinra was out to rebuild Midgar from ground   
zero, and since Shinra's control over the world had been   
virtually erased, the cost of rebuilding could only be afforded   
through various means of fund-raising activities. And selling   
these fortune-telling cards was one of them.  
  
Ariel knew exactly how these cards were made. From what   
she was told, they were formed by some sort of recycled metal   
scrap that had been infused somehow by leftover Mako   
energy. Obviously, the trace of energy was so minute that all   
they could do was to emit a small amount of light in the dark,   
illuminating pre-written messages of good fortune in the   
process. These messages, in turn, more or less went along the   
theme of "tomorrow will be a better day" or "things are   
looking better and better for you". It was basically part of a   
plan by the new Shinra to boost the morale for the survivors in   
the slums, and Ariel didn't really object to telling a little   
superstitious white lie if it would help people cope with their   
lives. After all, she thought, if you keep hearing stuff like   
"things are getting better" every single day, and you know   
deep down that things couldn't possibly get any worse,   
wouldn't it be true either way that things will actually start to   
look up?  
  
To a small extent, the morale-boosting trick had worked. As   
she slowly wandered through various old sectors, Ariel had   
occasionally seen before her very eyes glum looks of children   
and adults slowly replaced by hesitant smiles, and lackluster   
strides growing slightly more confident as time grew on. And   
that made her tremendously happy, when she knew that her   
hard work had finally bought a small degree of happiness into   
people's lives.   
  
However, for the most part, things didn't change in the way   
she hoped they would. More often than not, she would   
encounter groups of people drifting about aimlessly, lamenting   
as they rummaged through the ruins and the surrounding   
grassland areas right outside the old gates looking for food. It   
brought tears to her eyes whenever she thought about the   
majority of the population who had been devastated to the   
point that they no longer cared about anything, that they would   
only perform the most rudimentary and necessary tasks in life   
for a bare-minimum level of self-subsistence.   
  
Unfortunately, she had hit another one of those towns last   
week. She shuddered at the thought that there were still two   
sectors that she hadn't visited before, especially when rumors   
said that they were a little... unstable. Taking a brief survey at   
the scenes before her eyes and reciting from her memory of   
the past week, Ariel knew that although this particular sector   
had suffered far lighter damage as compared to the others   
she'd seen before, the general attitude of the locals was one of   
the worst. Maybe it was because the area had not been   
demolished to the point where it was no longer inhabitable,   
but people here seemed to be content in living their whole   
lives out in the junk-filled town without a change while it   
could have been so much more. Her shoulders drooped a little   
as Ariel let out a small sigh. It was really like trying to fill a   
general depression and angst the size of the Northern Crater   
with a shovel; times likes this just made her wonder if her   
work would ever truly pay off someday and make everyone go   
on with their lives. Seven days out on the street with only one   
customer was a new record low for her, not to mention a little   
embarrassing and out of place. It almost made her feel like   
she was selling charcoal in North Corel, or skin-whitening   
cream on the beachside of Costa del Sol.   
  
Without meaning to, she tried to recall what happened earlier   
today when she finally hit her first customer and more-or-less   
brought about the self-questioning and reminiscing that she   
had been going through ever since...  
  
xxx  
  
"Would you like to buy a Shinra fortune-telling card? It's   
only 100 gils each." With practiced ease, Ariel had addressed   
the pair before her in a singsong voice. She could tell that the   
lady in front of her was more than disinclined and probably   
not at all interested at buying anything she had to offer; the   
dull, barely tolerant glare from the woman's eyes spoke   
volumes as she stood a few feet away.  
  
"Yes," the middle-aged woman replied, "my son would like to   
buy one of these... gadgets... please." The strained tone of her   
voice clearly indicated that she, on the other hand, would have   
absolutely nothing to do with it.  
  
"Here you go," Ariel cheerfully said to the little boy. He was   
the first customer she had seen for the entire week. "Just hold   
the card in your hand like this and it'll tell you your fortune."   
Without tearing the plastic wrap away, she held the two edges   
of the card gingerly in a quick demonstration.  
  
"Cool!" The boy eagerly snatched the card from her fingers,   
took one brief look at the front cover with a colorful picture of   
Cait Sith, the Shinra mascot and at once started to experiment   
with the card like he was taught, not in the least noticing his   
mother leading him away.   
  
Ariel let out a tiny smile at the corner of her lips. She could   
already guess what the little kid would see on his card.   
However, her rueful smile was broken when she heard   
someone calling out to her.  
  
"Excuse me, miss?" It was the mother, standing about thirty   
feet away from her, who had paused suddenly and turned to   
her. "Yes, ma'am, how may I help you?"  
  
"If you don't mind me saying this, don't you think there are   
better things for a young lady like you to do than to spread this   
scam around all the time?" The question was brutal, direct,   
and unexpected to the point where she could only stutter in   
response. "Huh?"  
  
"I mean, you and I both know very well that this thing doesn't   
really tell your fortune, and although I don't see the point for   
you Shinra people to keep on selling this stuff, I personally   
hate a hoax when I see one. And if what you're selling isn't a   
fake, why don't you try reading your own fortune from one of   
those cards yourself sometimes?" Without waiting for a reply,   
she turned her head contemptuously and dragged her son off.  
  
For a long time afterwards, Ariel could only stand still and   
feel the burning flush in her cheeks rise even higher.  
  
xxx  
  
The words had stung. She could feel the heat on her face   
threaten to rise again just by replaying the scene alone in her   
mind.   
  
Up until now, Ariel had always believed what she was doing   
was for a good cause. It had pained her to see the inhabitants   
around Midgaria roaming about listlessly everyday, stripped   
of possession, family, or often even the will to persevere. And   
she had always wanted to help.  
  
Oh, how she wanted to.  
  
She had listened to countless stories recounted by her mother   
before, stories about how the lands and the earth had been   
before the Meteor struck. Things weren't perfect then; in fact,   
they were far from good. But whatever the conditions had   
been, they seemed worse now. Ariel personally would have   
chosen the old days when Shinra was in control rather than   
having to see the old and young alike roaming about this filthy   
dump day in and day out, again and again like scattered   
groups of mindless zombies.  
  
That was what she had said to herself when she applied for the   
job a little over a year ago. And she had believed in it   
wholeheartedly. She had thought that more good would come   
to it for everyone to have something to believe in, something   
to perhaps brighten their day... even though it might not even   
be true.   
  
Now she wasn't so sure anymore.  
  
Was she truly doing something horrible? The lady's words   
that morning made her feel like a petty scum, out to swindle   
what little money people might have left and give them false   
hope in the end. Was this what she had truly been doing for   
the past year? That very notion had shaken her to the core.  
  
A lone tear escaped and silently traveled down one side of her   
cheeks before she could rein in her emotions, leaving a small,   
glistening trail against the soft curves of her face. She was   
hurt, and she was confused. Her birthday was coming up in   
two months, and she had originally planned on working   
overtime just to have enough savings to go celebrate for a day   
or so. Now... now she just wanted to run back home and get   
away from it all, at least until she could calm down enough to   
reason out what she was going to do.  
  
Unable to cope with the onslaught of shame and doubt in her   
mind, she clutched the basket tight against her waist and began   
to run. Hoping to leave before she could break down even   
further and cause a public commotion, Ariel shut her eyes   
closed and made a blind dash towards the town gates.  
  
And promptly tripped herself over a small puddle of mud by   
her feet on her first step.  
  
  
III  
  
"DAMNED LIL' MUGGAS! GIT YOUR ASSES BACK   
HERE!" Barret Wallace hollered at the fleeing carriage down   
the street as he spurred on his own steed, one gun-grafted hand   
dangled loosely against his side suddenly flailing wildly in   
tune with an unexpected lurch from his saddle.   
  
The response he received was a shot too close to his liking   
from a pistol up front, clipping away a few feathers and a   
leather strap on a side belt as well. The beast he rode upon   
nearly leapt five foot into the air at the sudden twinge of pain.   
"Shit."  
  
The massive man spat out a string of curses into the wind,   
preparing to charge up another gallop to close the distance.   
The chase had raged across the western ruins of Sector 7, and   
the collateral damage they caused was more than he would   
like to think about. G'thing the place's a shithole already,   
Barret smiled a grim, taut smile, beads of sweat dripping down   
from his brows; 'coz I dun wanna be ther' t'pay the damn bills   
if it ain't.  
  
Painful as it was to admit, this was one time he actually   
wouldn't mind having some Shinra soldiers around to help   
out. As it were, however, most of the units had been   
disbanded within three months after Shinra's collapse, and the   
ones that didn't were usually the farthest away from   
Midgaria... and were reduced to mercenary thugs controlled by   
former squadron leaders, out to terrorize the countryside for   
basic commodities. Last time he heard, Vincent and Cid had   
just cleaned up a local rebel militia unit near Rocket Town.  
  
"Man, my back's killin' me," Barret muttered out loud,   
draping the bridle in a loop over the gun barrel on his right   
arm as he freed his left hand to rub off the soreness on his   
back. "HEY YA LIL' PIECE OF SHIT, I SAID STOP!"  
  
He was ignored.  
  
It was usually not a very common sight for a fifty-five year-  
old man, with his short, flat stub of hair and trimmed beard   
graying, to drive a Chocobo steed one-handed and engage on a   
mad shoot-and-run chase with some young upstart teenagers;   
but this was Barret Wallace. He was used to blowing Mako   
reactors to smithereens on a four-man-mission at his prime,   
and he was the one to score first blood against Hojo on top of   
the Shinra tower twenty years ago. Give him a target and   
enough lead; Barret was nigh invincible. Unfortunately, even   
he had his limits, and it was beginning to show in the form of   
random gasps and huffs after five gruesome hours of street   
dogfight, constantly ducking bullets and dodging grenades.   
  
A long chain of colorful expletives escaped his lips on instinct   
as the retired war hero swerved his huge body to one side and   
almost lost his balance from avoiding a passing volley of fire.   
The Chocobo under him squawked loudly in protestation; the   
sudden shift in weight had almost brought her down crashing   
into the road as well. Reeve's gonna owe me big this time,   
Barret thought, cursing all the while. He was going to take   
down that stupid "Snow Ball" gang even if it was the last   
thing he'd ever do.  
  
A small corner of his mind briefly recalled the meeting last   
evening he had with the new Shinra executive. Reeve had   
gone out of his way to beg him to come lend his hand to solve   
the problem last week, and had even prepared him a top-grade   
racing Chocobo with an Avalanche ribbon banner tied onto the   
back of her tail for this mission. It was uncustomarily nice for   
him, and for one short moment Barret had suspected some sort   
of an ulterior motive at work. The creator of Cait the Cat was   
nothing but sly, and even though he had proved over the years   
that he had indeed turned to the good side, Reeve was still able   
to pull some nasty surprises on the rest of the team from time   
to time. Cait had only persuaded him to leave his home in   
Kalm and come to his office after explaining that Shinra was   
very short on patrol and the Snow Ball gang had been a terror   
near Sector 8 for the last few months. "Besides," the grinning   
stuffed cat (on top of a stuffed moogle) had said while   
stroking the large Avalanche banner on the bird's tail, "it'd be   
a good chance to make people remember what Avalanche had   
been all about. There are still some people out there who still   
believe that you were the bad guys, you know, and you might   
as well try to clear the whole thing up again if only for Jesse   
and everyone else's sake."   
  
Feeling the truth in his words, the veteran leader of Avalanche   
had agreed to the job. Nevertheless, when he rested his gaze   
on the large, paint-printed "SNOW BALL" on the back of the   
Chocobo wagon in front of him and caught several passers-by   
staring at the chase with an expression that was partially fear,   
and partially something unidentifiable altogether, Barret   
couldn't help but think that maybe somehow he was missing a   
few details from the big picture.  
  
The trail led him to turn sharply around a corner and he   
suddenly realized that he was about to enter a more populated   
area once again. He made another attempt to catch up to the   
terrorists when he recognized the surrounding area as   
somewhere near Wall Market. Letting those two weave their   
way into the town was simply unacceptable; the chance of   
casualties occurring was too great a risk for him to take.   
Barret had held back his fire to a minimum before, as he didn't   
want to dirty his hands again after all this time.  
  
But there ain't no choice anymore, he told himself.  
  
Gritting his teeth, Barret Wallace charged his own guns and   
began to let loose a hail of ammunition back to the two   
terrorists, trading shots in earnest.  
  
  
IV  
  
"Itai." Ariel softly exclaimed, both hands cupping over the   
petite round tip of her nose. Then she slowly propped herself   
up from where she sat. Sprawling all over on the ground was   
not a position she would like to stay in for too long. Her face   
turned an embarrassing shade of red.  
  
Oh no, she thought, suddenly taking note of her condition, my   
uniform is ruined! And what's more, Ariel realized, was that   
the basketful of fortune telling cards had been spilled all over   
the road during her fall... "Oh, what a mess!"  
  
Reflexively, Ariel began dusting off her sleeves, the hem of   
her skirt and then her chestnut-brown hair that was tied into a   
long braid at the ends. That done, she quickly scampered   
about the road to retrieve her goods, doing her best to clean   
the mud out from the wrappings of the cards before she   
dropped them back into her straw basket.  
  
From somewhere past the town gates the green-eyed salesgirl   
could discern some sort of commotion, but she ignored it and   
concentrated on finishing her present task first. "Oh, great."   
Ariel said to herself, seeing that one of the cards was caught   
by the handles of a manhole lid several yards away, its plastic   
wrapping had been torn loose and scratched. She immediately   
hopped over onto the large metal lid on the ground to pick up   
the damaged piece.  
  
The background noise had gotten louder now and some voices   
yelling back and forth could be crudely made out, but Ariel   
tried not to mind it too much. Instead, she slipped two long,   
slender fingers beneath the rusty handle and gingerly fished   
the card out. Perhaps she could still salvage it somehow,   
maybe selling it at half price or something...  
  
A light tingling sensation coursed through her fingertips when   
she touched the small, metallic card and almost made her drop   
it in surprise. Mildly shocked, Ariel looked downwards at her   
hands and suddenly realized that something on the card she   
was holding had begun to flare a deep, materia green.   
  
At once, Ariel realized that this was what she had wanted all   
along. There was something ironic in the idea that one wished   
to read her fortune even from a device that she knew would   
not work, but Ariel couldn't care less. She had needed to   
reassure herself that the possibility of those cards actually   
working, no matter how slim the odds, was there. She needed   
that affirmation badly especially after the conversation this   
morning, because if she could know that what she was selling   
wasn't completely worthless, then a little bit of the guilt in her   
heart would disappear and she would be able to trust in her   
hope again. Now was her chance to prove she was right.  
  
Partially shying away from the intense magical flash, she tried   
to make out what the message on the card was with   
apprehension mixed with a wave of excitement.   
  
It took a short moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, but   
when she did she read the green, flickering message to herself.  
  
Shuddering convulsively, with her hands trembling, she paled.  
  
The line was crisp and simple, and in an old English font that   
she didn't recognize. But the message was very clear.  
  
"You will not live  
to see your seventeenth birthday."  
  
And then, without warning, darkness rose from all sides as the   
ground beneath her leapt up to swallow her whole.  
  
  
[END CHAPTER ONE]  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
======================================  
Coming Some-time in the Future...  
======================================  
  
Chapter Two: Of Things to Remember When Revisiting the   
Midgar Sewers  
  
Chapter Three: The Unexpected Convenience of Taking   
Refuge in Your Own Church  
  
Chapter Four: 101 Ways to Kill an Aeris Gainsborough  
  
Chapter Five: Legacy of the Last Soldier  
  
Chapter Six: Voice of the Planet  
  
Chapter Seven: Strife amidst Clouds  
  
Chapter Eight: The Missing Wing on the Angel  
  
Chapter Nine: Meteor, Part Two  
  
Chapter Ten: The Holy One  
  
Chapter Eleven: Live & Let Die  
  
  
Epilogue – That Flower Girl...  



End file.
